


Philadelphia Song

by TheWickedWench



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: AU, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-01 05:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17861321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWickedWench/pseuds/TheWickedWench
Summary: - AU - Born in Philadelphia to two immigrant parents who die by fire, Maylin makes a meager wage for herself doing odd tasks around the city. Going through the motions is her only real life plan, until a new ship sails into port near the week's end and she finds herself in a precarious situation. Captain Bonnet being in the right place at the right time might just come as a blessing to the both of them.





	1. Thursday / Erin Gra mo Chroi

**Author's Note:**

> First Outlander fanfic! I was disappointed with the lack of Stephen Bonnet fanfic and decided to try it myself. I usually only write fanfic for myself and rarely, rarely ever publish anything so please be kind. Keep in mind this is an AU so here I am pretending the last 5 minutes of season 4 episode 8 did not take place (aka: no rape). There will be a non-con allusion in the next chapter or so, and I will give a warning for it. (But this is not done by Stephen, but rather a brief OC.)
> 
> The chapter's title comes from this lovely little song by Dervish: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSHIJvM0zXc

‘Twas like any other Thursday night. Though most Thursdays, Maylin worked until the final hour of her shift. Sometimes later. That evening however, she had a bit of time off, having already prepared everything for the morning. Business had the habit of being busier on Fridays what with customers preparing for the upcoming week’s end. Family dinners, parties and other social gatherings were what Maylin continually baked for, though she experienced none herself. That fire had taken everything from her, and she was still unsure of why she chose to remain in the city where it all happened. 

Philadelphia wasn’t much better than the prison she had to walk passed everyday. The city reeked of rotting flesh and diseases that thrived in damp environments. She wondered what her life might’ve been like if her parents had never made the journey to the New World. Perhaps she’d have had better chances in Ireland, she thought as she trotted toward her rented room. She could have carried on her family’s bloodline at least. Growing up having listened to two County Kerry natived preach on the importance of family ties during her childhood, she reckoned it probably would’ve been superior than whatever life she was leading currently. Stranded in Philadelphia without much worth, she knew she’d never know the land her mother and father came from. The urine soaked streets of Pennsylvania’s “most impressive” city was all she could base her life upon. 

Still, Maylin had work. Mr. Oliver Godfrey’s bakery was solace, though he hadn’t been the same congenial man since his wife passed just that past winter. To be fair, she hadn’t been herself in a long while either. But she had a roof over her head, even if it leaked most days. Maylin simply hadn’t the time or money to fix it. If she wasn’t baking, she spent her time mending what little clothing she had. Was she not occupied with that, she tried to read and forget that on most days, she wished she were anywhere else. 

When she closed up Mr. Godfrey’s bakery shoppe earlier, she realized the air was particularly chilly. Wrapping her cloak around her tighter, she silently prayed that the worst of winter was behind them. It was halfway through February after all. Bustling taverns would soon reach their peak, wanderers cluttered the streets, and it was well practiced by anyone who valued their mortality and morality that refuge should be sought out soon. While Philadelphia wasn’t known for hosting all the world’s criminals, it was not to be regarded as wholly safe either. Maylin sighed, remembering she had not restocked any food back at her room. Keeping anything fresh without a proper kitchen would be her downfall, she surmised. 

Unfortunately, she knew she would have to stop by the Crow’s Feet Tavern on the way home instead. Emily was a king enough owner and fellow working lass. Sometimes Maylin wondered how the woman ever managed to run a somewhat respectable business on her own, especially around those parts. Constructing a city on a grid was a brilliant plan until it came to fruition, and the turn from one street to the next could mean compromising one’s security. Men were never to be trifled with, especially that late in the day. But the sun was not yet asleep, and Maylin knew that Emily wouldn’t turn her away even if the establishment was to the brim with customers.

There were two types of people who inhabited Maylin’s home port. Those that did their reputable work during the daylight and those who waited to do their work under the secret of night. Maylin clutched her cloak tighter to her as she made her way through the pedestrians and carriages, minding her feet with each step. The promise of a warm meal and break from the wind's chill carried her onward. 

Coming to the tavern, Maylin let herself in. The night's crowds weren't yet at their most dense, and she was grateful she made it early enough to grab a seat. Turning to her right, she saw Emily getting a tray of bottles together behind the bar. Not much a friend, but one of the few in the city that Maylin was on a first name basis with, if it counted for anything. Connection was something she hadn't felt since the fire. 

That was the horror about fires, she thought, as she neared an empty spot by the bar. Before Emily could notice her, Maylin recalled how the steam forced its way into her lungs. The sounds of charring wood and her parents' screams being slowly drowned out by flames. The hem of her dress had caught, and it took all of her strength to move down the stairs and out the door. If not for her parents, for herself. She felt a shell of herself in that moment, as if the fire had claimed her as well. People weren't meant to pack themselves so closely in cities such as this when fires were such a risk. The memory of the smell would be with her forever. 

"The usual, Maylin?" a voice asked. 

Pulled from her memory, the brunette blinked. It was Emily. 

"What?" Maylin asked. 

Emily sighed. "I'll put in your order. The usual." She scurried off, halfway disinterested. This crowd was nothing compared to what it'd be any minute now, Emily was certain. She didn't want to be behind on tables before the chaos ensued. 

Maylin nodded absently as she looked into the wooden counter of the bar. Small engravings were made with strangers' initials and crude drawings. Part of her wanted to laugh. She quite enjoyed the cartoons that artists drew for the newspaper. Her father had always given her an edition of the paper each week, every Thursday. It was far enough through the week for all of the most interesting events to make the news, he said. The Friday edition was only consumed with advertisements for those that would make the downtown Friday market, and those weren't nearly as comical as the characters Maylin liked reading about. 

As if on cue, a pack of motley colored characters burst through the front doors. They could have leaped right from the newspaper's pages. Maylin gripped her cloak again, reminding herself not to startle. She had developed the terrible habit of wincing whenever loud sounds came. It reminded her too much of how the windows went shattering in the fire. She craned her head to get a closer look at the customers. 

Sailors, there was no doubt. They smelled of the sea and wore their clothes drably. The energy from them alone was enough to lift that very building and toss it across the Atlantic. Why anyone would want to toss an entire building, Maylin didn't know, but she didn't doubt they could. 

"Haven't you got any bloody music?" one of the men shouted. His comrades laughed behind him. 

Maylin could practically hear Emily roll her eyes at that. Hiring nightly bands was expensive, even with dozens of penniless musicians looking for work. The problem was that most of them didn't know how to play together or speak the same language. Philadelphia was a melting pot of cultures if a traveler ever saw one. 

"Aye! Give the lads a moment before ye start a brawl, sir," Emily responded. Maylin would kill for an ounce of that woman's strength. 

"Ye see, love, we've come a long way wi'out any bonnie lasses to talk to or music to sing to," a deep voice erupted from Maylin's side. She turned to see a young-looking man with a knitted hat atop his head. From his stance and slur, she guessed he may have already had his fix of drink. She hesitated, clearing her throat and forcing a small smile. 

"I'm sure the music will begin shortly," she answered. 

The man had mussed brown hair and smelled pungently of rum. Maylin had to cough to regain herself. But just as the man was about to open his mouth again, the twang of a fiddle struck up in the corner. Ah, her favorite instrument. Because Maylin rarely frequented the city's restaurants, she was afraid to admit how much she might have missed the rejuvenating sound of live music. It was indeed a far cry from the sounds she sometimes found herself having nightmares about. The sailors took to hollering along with the music, getting on with the evening. 

As Emily came back to her, and the strange man next to her rejoining his men, Maylin hoped that spending a few hours amongst warm, living people would do her some good. The tankard of ale in front of her was a start.


	2. Evening / Molly and Johnny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy chapter 2! We finally get to meet Stephen. Please let me know what you think! :)

The drink did what it could to warm her up. Ale was Maylin's middle ground. She could appreciate the alcohol for what it was without getting ill. Walking inebriated around a city at night was not a wise past time. She kept the tankard protectively between her palms, taking a more thorough look at the tavern's customers. No one of nobility ever made an appearance there. Clientele was mostly made up of the working class, which Philadelphia was at its heart. Hundreds and thousands of individuals all seeking what their homelands had failed to provide them.

Many of the rowdy crew began to dance around the tables of the center. Anyone nearby would either scoot further away or feel compelled to join in. While Maylin was not in any mood to partake in the festivities, she could admire how carefree they seemed. Had she been born a male, she might have laid a different path out for herself. Women weren't found aboard ships unless they were the hired "entertainment" or the captain's wife. Though she did make a meager living begging her bread, so to speak, she vowed to never be //that// desperate of coin.

One of the men must've caught her staring. Immediately she regretted taking in the environment and looked back to the new plate before her. It was little seasoned beef and roasted potatoes, but it was food. It wasn't like she was accustomed to dining out fancifully either way. She began to stuff her face. No red blooded man would find that endearing, and so she would be free of questionable company.

"Would you care to dance, darlin'?"

Bloody hell. It was him. Her cheeks stuffed with potatoes, she inwardly groaned. No such luck. The pressure on, she struggled to chew and swallow fast as she could to provide an answer. She choked the food down, remembering why she always found Emily's potatoes tasteless.

When she turned to the man beside her, hand extended, she paused. He was clad in the typical sailor's garb, though more regal than the other men. Not regal, but smart. He seemed to radiate a sort of authority, and Maylin couldn't yet tell if she found it attractive or disconcerting. Blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck and striking blue eyes, a color she'd only ever seen on the midday ocean. Propriety called, no matter how unappetizing the food's aftertaste sat in her mouth.

"I appreciate the offer, sir, but I really should finish my meal," she said.

The sailor smiled, teeth showing. The crinkles around his eyes might've looked more trusting had the introduction happened anywhere but the tavern on a late night.  
"One dance. I'm sure you could spare a lonely man some sweet company," he suggested.

Maylin shook her head, obligating herself to pay him a smile, if anything.

"I'm sure you might find some of the other women in this establishment more entertaining, Mr...?"

"Captain Stephen Bonnet, madame, at your service." He did a short bow and retreated his hand back to rest upon a pistol tucked into his belt.

"Captain?" Maylin asked before she could catch herself.

Curiosity killed the cat.

"Of the Gloriana. We're in port through the week before we make our way back down to the Carolinas," he answered.

Maylin might've admitted she didn't know much of sailing and which ships came into port each day. The city's population changed daily. She wanted to believe they were all honest seamen but she knew the dangers that some ships brought into port. As for Mr. Bonnet's, she found herself unaware.

"I wish you a safe journey back then, Mr. Bonnet," she smiled. "But I really must stay here and take advantage of Emily's cooking. It'd be rude to not show my appreciation for her charity." 

In went another forkful of potatoes. She washed the flavorless starch down with a hearty swig of ale. In the room's center, the band began to narrate. The crowd fell to a murmur as the flautist stood upon a stool with a boasting tone.

"This next song is "Molly and Johnny." It's all about a couple called, --if you could believe it, Molly and Johnny. They were going to get married. Only Johnny had announced over the breakfast table one morning... well, he told her that he had enlisted in the Navy. He said he wouldn't be back until May... if ever. So, this one is about Molly. It's her warning to any other women out there, or foolish lads that be thinkin' it wise to love a one and leave a one. Molly's advice? Don't get married, boys!"

Music commenced and the patrons returned to their socializing. Mr. Bonnet lifted a brow at Maylin, extending his offer once more. Gods, she was bonny. He'd been to many a port and seen many a girl, but none so handsome as the one before him. Something about her not accepting his dance at first made him itch somewhere inside. He wasn't a man many refused. Would she rather eat that grubby tavern food than dance?

"Consider this dance a charitable act, toward me. Should you dance with me, your Emily's charity toward you, is repaid. They cancel each other out, darlin'," he explained.  
Maylin took another gulp of the ale. She knew Emily wouldn't be pleased seeing the meal go to waste so she could dance with another customer, but she also knew the other woman wouldn't be bitter about it for long. Things changed too quickly in the city for it to matter.

One dance. Until the end of "Molly and Johnny," and then Maylin would be right back to her lackluster. Her arms ached from the grueling process of kneading dough earlier in the day. And by Mary, Jesus and Joseph, she deserved a rest. She gave Mr. Bonnet as genuine a smile as she could muster and strut out her own hand.

"Only until the song finishes," she reasoned.

"Good thing it's a long song, then," he said, chuckling.

He whisked her away and wrapped a hand around her waist with the other on her shoulder.

The rhythm was too leisurely for a twirl as energetic as the one Mr. Bonnet had given her. His pace slowed and she followed him in silence for a moment. One would have thought her small talk skills to be strong from daily practice with her customers. She glanced up at the man guiding her, noticing a thin scar striking a line beneath his left eye. It looked as if he may have had it stitched at one point. What sort of mishap need he have gotten into to earn a mark like that?

"It's only fair to dance with someone after you've learnt their name. You know mine, I know that Emily's, and we know good ol' Molly and Johnny. What do I have to do to learn yours?" he asked, a smirk across his lips.

Maylin stepped with him to the right, backward one, two forward. She shook her head, apprehensive to smile. She was not so soon to reward him with too much goodwill.

"Maylin," she answered.

"D'ye have a last name to go with that?" The lilt that hung at the end of his question warmed her. It was a familiar sound. An accent nearly identical to her parents'.

"Brennan. Maylin Brennan. Born and raised here in Philadelphia," she said.

They crossed the room to the opposite end. Maylin briefly saw their candelit shadows spinning on the window's reflection. Mindful of the drunk and pushed over furniture, the dancing was quite the task. Maylin wondered what Molly had done after Johnny told her of his going away, but she could barely listen to the slurred words of the band's singer against Mr. Bonnet and his crew's boisterous conversations. When her partner's eyebrows raised at her name, she considered him decently attractive. Fair-haired, clear eyes, strong jaw. Perhaps in another world where she could be considered the type of woman men fell in love with, and him a strong contender for marriage, she could fancy him without apprehension.

"Brennan is Irish, is it?"

She nodded.

"Yes. My parents made the journey over just before I was born."

Stephen smiled, nodding like he was impressed with this knowledge.

"What was their home? I'm from Sligo meself, though I'd consider meself countryless now," he said.

Maylin had to give him credit. She wasn't doing much to lead the conversation on and yet he pressed. Persistence could be hard won.

"Killarney. I've never known it, but I know the name. As you know my name now, I suppose," she replied.

Knowing a name was miles different from knowing what that name meant or what it held. Her parents often reminisced about their hometown, describing it as best they could. Ross Castle, nestled a short walk from the town square, her mother had said. It was known to be haunted, and that story was one Maylin couldn't help but love hearing many times over. O'Donoghue Mór, the man who built the stronghold for his family, slept beneath the lake. Maylin's mother always told her he was dreaming of a long lost love. On the first of May every seven years, he'd rise, hoping to be reunited with his soulmate who died that same day only seven years after their marriage. As heartbreaking as the story was, it sometimes gave Maylin hope that one day she might find her own O'Donoghue Mór. Someone to love and wait for her.

"There are things I'll never know either, sweetheart. Some things are better that way, trust me." His voice took her from her reverie, louder now that the music ended. She met his eyes and released his hand. He was warm, she noted.

"Trust a man I just met?" she asked, more to herself. She crossed her arms across her chest after realizing it was indeed said aloud.

"I can assure you, Miss Brennan, I am a man of my word. An honest man."

The way his eyes sparkled like diamonds on the sea made her want to believe him. She starved for connection, intimacy and trust. These were not qualities she had not found hidden anywhere in the streets of the city. Though as hungry as she was for these, she knew it was safer to stay close to herself. Everything that past year was different. The fire forced her to relearn everything.

"And the men in your crew. Are they honest men, Mr. Bonnet?" she challenged.

The captain scratched his nose, glancing back at his men.

"They're scoundrels," he said. "But they do the work and don't gripe much."

Maylin stood awkwardly, a chair brushing against the hem of her dress. The song ended, another already begun, and it took nearly all the captain's will to not take her upstairs for himself. He always swore there was none so handsome as an Irish lass. Born on the Emerald Isle she may not have been, but her features were Irish through and through. A light sprinkling of freckles when the candlelight shone right. Skin soft and the color of the foreign porcelain he sometimes imported. The mix of dusted coral and verdant on her bodice and skirt highlighting every way she moved. 

She wasn't so much of the conversational type, but he surmised he'd just have to gradually get to know her better. Maybe even more than taking her for himself, he thought he'd rather learn her first. Still waters run deep, and she was flowing carefully to not disturb the waves above. Their eyes locking again, he realized that he might be willing to risk his fear of drowning for a second below the waters with her.

"Would you mind sharin', cap'n?"

Maylin gasped as the messy brown-haired man from earlier constricted his arms around her, pulling her to him. Mr. Bonnet was on him in a heartbeat, removing the offender just before the man could give Maylin a wet kiss on the cheek. She stood in shock, unsure of what just occurred. Mr. Bonnet shoved the man aside, who went toppling over in the chair next to Maylin. She watched in bewilderment.

"Mind yourself, man. The lassie isn't a plaything, much less //yours//," Mr. Bonnet warned.

The tavern paused before breaking out in laughter as the offender struggled to stand. Three sheets to the wind, he was. Maylin knew this was one of the reasons she kept to herself, especially past sundown.

"I should expect you to learn respect before our next voyage, Mr. Crawford. I'll not be having pigs work aboard my ship. Is that understood?" he asked, bending down to meet the other man's face.

A weak nod was his only reaction.

"I didn't hear an answer, Mr. Crawford," Mr. Bonnet said.

"Aye, cap'n." It was barely audible, never mind barely comprehensible.

Maylin felt stupefied, part of her fearing the tone and force Mr. Bonnet used against the other man. But she'd be lying if she didn't admit that a larger part of her was grateful. She had heard too many stories about what happened to some unfortunate women. The most Mr. Bonnet had wanted of her was a dance; that she could bear. Although the behavior his crew had exhibited left much to be desired.

She backed away from the scene, turning on her heel toward the plate of food Emily had given her. It'd disappeared sometime during the dance, and she felt even more disheartened. She wasn't finished eating and the past while had exhausted her. But knowing that Emily wouldn't dole out another act of charity that night, she decided it was best that she return home.

Home. If that's what she could call it.

A grasp on her wrist made her whip her head. It was the captain again. He released her hand and put up both in defense: surrender. Maylin noticed he had another coat atop the one he'd been wearing, this one more of an olive green. He looked like he was also about to make his sortie.

"My apologies, Miss. Brennan. I'll not ask you to forgive the bastard, but I'd like to extend //my// regret for what happened back there. Are you alright?" he asked.

Maylin blinked. She cleared her throat before speaking, hands securing her cloak around her. It was safe.

"I'm fine," she said, albeit shaky.

"Tell me you're not on your way home," he said.

Maylin shrugged, wanting to leave the night behind and get on.

"I am. It's been a lovely dance, Mr. Bonnet. Goodnight, sir."

Again as she spun to leave, he caught up with her.

"Wait," he called. He stood in front of her, almost blocking the door. "Let me escort you home. It's the least I can do."

It was the gentlemanly thing to do, but Maylin didn't trust him yet. He claimed to be an honest man, but if the rest of his crew's behavior was anything like that Crawford's, what kind of man //did// that make Stephen Bonnet?

Still, he seemed to understand the concept of boundaries and basic respect. It might be unfair to judge him based on those who worked beneath him. While he was their captain, he could not be responsible for all their actions while off the ship. Something in his voice held the possibility of security. He spoke with a familiar cadence, a pleasant lilt. It was deep, but not demanding. His voice sounded the way aged whiskey rolled down one's throat.

And Maylin hadn't tasted authentic whiskey in //too long//.

The memory of her mother suddenly came to her, and she knew how her mother would hate to have heard that she turned down a walk home from an Irishman. She also knew, whether she liked it or not, that having a man on her would grant a safer trip. She relented.

"You may escort me home, Mr. Bonnet," she said, looking down. He offered his arm to her and she waited before accepting. "Thank you."

A whistle rung from the back of the tavern where his crew sat. A few hollers from teasing men caused the color in Maylin's cheeks rise, subconsciously tightening her grip on Mr. Bonnet's arm. His coat was soft.

"Best way to get them to stop is to ignore them, sweetheart. On we walk," he said with a handsome smile. They stepped outside the tavern, back onto the street. "And please, call me Stephen."

The streets were buzzing, as expected. The pair walked in a pleasant silence at first. Either one speaking only when Maylin had to direct a left turn at the end of Pearl Street. Stephen didn't come across as overbearing, and he his arm held hers loosely, giving her space. Every few minutes, she dared to look at him and found his profile just as lovely. It had been so long since Maylin had any conversation with a man who was not a bakery customer. She was afraid she didn't know what sort of protocol was in place should she take a real liking to the man.

It was no matter though. He was a sailor and she was landlocked. There would be no pleasure in fraternizing with someone of his occupation. It wouldn't be worth the trouble. She could appreciate his earlier act of heroism and enjoy a walk home when she didn't have to be en garde herself.

"What plans do you have for tomorrow, Miss. Brennan?" Stephen asked.

Maylin shrugged, leading him around the final corner before she arrived home.

"Working, as usual. I'll have to get an early start if I want to have everything done in time for the Friday sales," she said.

Stephen looked to her.

"What kind of work is it that ye do?"

Maylin should have smiled, had she the real passion for her work. Once upon a time she adored spending all hours of the day. She'd be up to her knees in dough and flour, baking goods fit for royal banquets. But that was when her mother was alive. After her death, Maylin stopped feeling experimental with her breads and cakes. There was no need to try and impress her mother if she wasn't there.

"I bake. Anything that can go in an oven is what I deal with. It's more of a means to an end now," she admitted.

Stephen's face changed into a frown.

"Colleen as beautiful as you shouldn't end her day so unfulfilled. Perhaps you should come join my crew, eh? Ye can work in the galley. I'd wager you'd manage to get creative with hardtack," he said.

Maylin let out a laugh. Or was it a scoff?

"If your men are scoundrels, how am I to know you're any better?" she asked, coming to stop in front of number 914. This was her. "We've reached my home."

"My crew does not speak for me, madame." He freed their arms. "If you were wantin' to find out whether I'm a scoundrel or not, I'd only ask for time to prove myself."

Maylin regarded him carefully, crossing her arms across her chest with her cloak. She would confess she wasn't ready to relinquish the heat of his body yet.

"I'm not so sure a sailor has time. I know all too well that a baker does not," she said.

Stephen smiled, showing his teeth again. They were brilliantly white, a far cry from the sorts that were usually seen around her residence. He took her hand in both of his, closing his around it. His hands were calloused, but they were oddly inviting. He brought her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

"Oíche mhaith, Miss. Maylin Brennan," he said.

Maylin returned the smile, and this time it didn't feel like an act she usually put on for incomers of the bakery. It didn't feel like a forced smile she'd give to Emily when she needed another favor. This was genuine.

"Goodnight, Stephen."

She watched him disappear under the moonlight before she turned to let herself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was named after the song "Molly and Johnny" by Dervish, which you can listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWJ-NjxDw-Y
> 
> This chapter (and my setting of 1700s Philadelphia in general) is loosely based off real Philadelphia history. Here is a link to an interesting documentary series about the founding of Philly and the state of Pennsylvania: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-31iitsBAh0&t=1515s
> 
> "Colleen" is an English spelling of the Irish Gaeilge word "cailín," which means "girl."  
> "Oíche mhaith" is Irish Gaeilge for "goodnight." 
> 
> There is a worry about writing Stephen out of character since I'm not writing him 100% canonically. I'm not going to ignore everything the show/books say about his background or personality, and plan to implement some of that in the future of this fic. I also have a few original ideas up my sleeve for him here. But what I'm saying is: if I'm writing him drastically out of character (so much to the point where you can't recognize any kind of authentic Stephen Bonnet in there) please let me know! This is the first time I've written any "real" fic outside of the Pirates of the Caribbean fandom so I worry haha. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Again, you can find me on Tumblr at https://bonnieisle.tumblr.com/


	3. Friday / Tell God and the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Attempted rape scene ahead. Please read at your own discretion.

There was no rest. Anyone else might've assumed that it was the week before Christmastide they were so busy. Mr. Godfrey certainly didn't do his part even with the bakery being his own. Maylin shuffled from one side of the counter to the other, to the kitchen and back again. She wounded herself retrieving fresh bread loaves from the oven. She burned herself, and it stung like hell but there was no time to spend tending it. Ripping off a piece of her petticoat, she dipped the cloth in a pail and wrapped it around her thumb. She must've not been paying close enough attention.

Mr. Godfrey's was one of the few bakeries in Philadelphia that didn't source wheat from questionable farms. It made for a successful business, but it wore on one eventually. The elder man's wife's passing had taken a toll on him. He was sluggish, often taking extra time off. And this did partially worry the only girl in his employ. Maylin feared one day he might keel over and that would be the end of it. She did not know much aside from basic counting and recipe reading, but she knew she did not have a mind for business.

Quite unlike her parents. Maylin had been lucky to be hired for the bakery. Before, her father sold pieces of kitchenware on the first floor of their apartment. Mr. Godfrey and his wife were intermittent customers. The couple usually admired the scent of the baking Maylin and her mother did upstairs. Maylin was around twenty-three then. She did appreciate the work now, it allowed for her to push on each day. There was no denying that with each of those days however, Mr. Godfrey became more agitated. It began to eat at Maylin almost as much as himself. Sometimes she wondered how much more of the unforgivable routine she could stand. Was this to be her life until she rejoined her parents?

She knew any other options were either limited or foolish. She was a woman without a formal education, without a reputable name and no one to look after her but herself. Money was a blessing when she received it, but she had to work herself silly to earn it. Every so often, God would smile upon her and persuade a customer to leave a tip. That was subtile. Sometimes she'd curse the God that took away her family. What sort of Almighty would leave a girl like her alone? The Church might argue that it was only one of the many trials life had to offer.

She saw trials every day. She saw children sleeping in the street, the city's waste at their feet. Government officials pounding an ill man over the head as he begged for bread. Just that morning she'd seen a dog outside her front door, lying still in the middle of the road. It was a mangy, starved thing. Nothing but flimsy bones beneath an infected coat of black fur. The faces and silent screams of two individuals as flames crashed over them. There was no God to be found in the city that Maylin saw. She was even less of hope that He might one day reappear. If He were to ever return, Maylin should like to have a strong word with Him.

An aggressive cough stole her from her thoughts. The broken stupor also reminded her of the burning pain of her thumb. She grimaced, squeezing the hand in a fist. The cool cloth did little to soothe.

"I'm not well, Miss. Brennan," said Mr. Godfrey. His hands dangled limp by his sides, back hunched over.

Maylin knew what was coming. This was his usual performance.

"Will you not be able to finish the day with me, sir?" she asked.

Mr. Godfrey coughed again. It was such a ragged sound that his glasses nearly fell off his nose.

"I'll be heading back now. You know how to close up and clean up, aye?" he asked. Before Maylin had a chance to reply, he spoke again, already halfway out of the door. "I appreciate the help, dear."

The man already had his coat on when he came to her, she noticed, watching him leave. Sighing, she tucked her hair back behind her ears. It had been such a long day and her feet ached. So much for hoping to reach the Friday market before it closed. She had no time to spare any shopping for herself and didn't want to ask Emily for another meal at the Crow's Feet. The woman wasn't much for niceties. But Maylin thought the favor might look better if she brought along a fresh batch of lemon cookies. Mr. Godfrey's sight had been dwindling within the last few months, and she prayed he wouldn't notice the missing food.

Before anyone else could come in, Maylin got to packaging the lemon cookies for the tavern owner. As she was tying the string to keep it closed, she winced again at the pain of her burn. How ridiculous for a well-experienced baker to slip a hand in the oven.

Her mind hadn't been preoccupied with thoughts of the sea captain. She didn't try to recall the color of his eyes on purpose, and she didn't replay their conversation all day. It was a shame he was a sailor, she thought. He was handsome, showcasing all the qualities a gentleman should have. But something in his face had told her he might be withholding something. She couldn't determine if that would've been a good surprise or not, had she found out. But she also expected she would never have the chance to find out, and perhaps it was for the best.

When the next customers came in, Maylin plastered a smile over her mouth. The clock read six o'clock. Thirty more minutes and she'd be able to call it another week. Her routine wasn't stimulating or spontaneous, but at least she knew it'd be over soon.

  
...

 

When the church bells rang the eight o'clock hour, Maylin groaned. She'd finished mopping the floors. Her thumb still tingled unpleasantly and she was glad to be done for the day. She tidied herself best she could after making sure all kitchen tools were in their place. The bakery had no mirror, but her reflection in the widow worked well enough. She saw the few street lamps had been lit for the night. That was reassuring. She felt better walking home after dark if she could see her surroundings.

The city was starting to come alive. A different population of dwellers emerged only after the moon rose, and Maylin wondered whether these people were cursed or not. As a lover of the sun and its daylight, she couldn't understand why one would hide from it. Surely only something as unfortunate as a curse would make one stay away.

She sighed, dropping her arms from tying off the braid in her hair.

"If curses are a thing of reality, May, you must be cursed as well," she said.

The young woman took the lemon cookies, sealed in a flax paper package, and made her way out. She held the cookies close to her chest. She left praying Emily would appreciate them enough to feed her for the second night in a row. Maylin loathed asking too many favors of people, and of Emily in particular. She was aware that was she was doing was a bit hypocritical, --watching Philadelphians sit hungry in the alleys while she was off asking an acquaintance for free meals.

That was the nasty truth of cities. They forced everyone to put themselves first. Selfishness was a survival technique, and though it sometimes hurt, it didn't have time for guilt. Seemed God didn't have time for Philadelphia either.

The air was warmer that night, Maylin noted, as she walked along the street. Lights gleamed out of windows and lively atmospheres greeted her as she passed them. "Ladies of the night" waited on corners and any family that was caught out too late ushered their children away from them. She felt received when she noticed she was close to the tavern, thanking whatever deity existed, if any, that the streets were populated with people. It was more of a safety paranoia than anything. Her father had escorted her almost everywhere before he died. But with her head up and hands on the cookies, she breathed in. Nothing like the stench of the city to help oneself catch their second wind.

She smiled, seeing Sterner Street was two blocks up ahead. It was like seeing a lighthouse after being lost at sea: Salvation. It was the kind that did not come with a long mass at church. She started humming a song she'd heard in the Crow's Feet just after the fire. It had struck a nerve with her and became a fast favorite.

"So tell God and the Devil they can try, but today is not going to be the day we die," she sang.

A shrill sound shook her.

"There y'are, lass!"

Maylin jumped and took a step backward. Difficult to recognize at first, but once she did, her eyes widened. It was the very man that had tried to assault her the night previous. Crawford. A member of Stephen Bonnet's crew. Not a man she'd ever imagined meeting again. Though seeing as she was a block away from the tavern, she understood how it might've happened. In those situations, she learned it was best to ignore a person and continue walking. But that was what made this run-in so awkward. They were most likely going to the same place, and so not greeting him would be _too_  rude. Not that he had shown much civility toward her before.

She forced a smile.

"Good evening. Can I help you?" she asked.

The man nodded, and when he opened his mouth, drool came flooding out. Maylin tried not to grimace. It wasn't the first time she'd seen someone so poorly taken care of.

"Ye can, lass. Y'see, I'm skint broke and was hoping for some company tonight. Lost all my coin at cards, y'see. Ye wouldn't mind performin' some services wi'out pay, eh?" he asked.

His stance swayed and the smell of rum clouded around him. That mousy hair was in a messy heap behind his neck, greasy and repulsive. There was a glint in his eye that told Maylin he could be dangerous. She knew what kind of grip the man had and wanted no part in another demonstration. She cleared her throat, standing her ground and keeping her chin up.

"I'm afraid I don't work in that industry, sir. Goodnight."

She began to stamp passed him, dignified. But the grip took her back again, forcibly. Her heart stopped.

"I think that tonight, y'do work," he growled.

He was on her in a second. His body pinned her down into the street, cold mud of the road crawling into the crevices of her bodice like worms. His mouth suffocated hers, his tongue forcing her to open. His teeth ground against hers, tasting of the most foul alcohol. Hands everywhere, ripping and tearing at anything he could get them on. There was nothing that Maylin could see, hear or feel that wasn't the bastard.

"No! Someone ple-!" she screamed, her voice scratching like nails. “Help!”

There on the street, in a populated area, the man tried to take advantage. The only thing Maylin knew she needed to do in that moment was fight. She wanted him off her.

But every muscle in her body failed her. Screaming for help again was void. Her mouth moved but nothing escaped. Her hands shook, she could feel them losing control. But she could not move them. The burning on her thumb went numb. The streetlight closest to them started to blink and fog.

Maylin had fainted once in her life. Years ago on an unusually humid day. She skipped luncheon that day because she'd been too engrossed a new novel by Jeanne-Marie Beaumont. A French romance novel, translated. The enchantment of a cursed prince in a lonely castle was too good to pause. She remembered the words of the book blurring together, letters spinning upside down and going gray. She had forgotten how hungry she must've felt, having not eaten. The heat of her chambers had closed in on her. The window was open, but the day's weather smothered her still. There was no collapse, for she was already on her bed. The world slowly engulfed her then as the words on the page went black.

This time there was no bed underneath her. There were no parents that could come to walk her up with a splash of water to the face and a tender hand in her hair.

She fought against the flames. She tried to splash water upon them like her parents had done for her before. There was no water here and the flames were rising. The heat of the day and the old book's words consuming her again.

With nothing to fight with and the onslaught of her captor, she relinquished.

The man split her knees apart with his hands, hiking up her skirts for his crime. He spoke few words. Anything he might've said was heard through muffled clothing and intoxication. For him, time passed like lightning. He saw the woman, jumped her and knew he would take her. Whether she enjoyed it or not. He was not of the affluence that night to pay for a whore.

...

The Gloriana's captain had not yet joined the rest of his men at the Crow's Feet. His meeting with a local merchant had lasted longer than he'd expected, but the rewards were lucrative. Trading and smuggling was growing more difficult. The profits were high only because the stakes were high. If unsettlement between colonists and the Crown continued, Stephen wondered how much longer he'd be able to keep it up.

A pirate's life was ofttimes a short one.

The jiggling coins in his purse reminded him why he enjoyed his work so much. Some men were unwillingly thrust into it and others ran to piracy as a way of hiding. There was no better place to hide than in plain sight, under the watchful eye of England. But Stephen felt that his happenstance was different. Piracy was not about hiding or forcing. It wasn't much about the freedom it brought some men either.

What it brought to Stephen was _control_. The notion that for once in his life, he was in charge of his own decisions. He would decide that which was in his power and Danu would decide what was not. He saw no use in troubling himself with what which was beyond his power like the wind, the rain, lightning. All parts of life that could not be predictable, much less controlled. What he did know was that it was his hands that steered his ship. He was the one to bark orders at the men. Should he one day be unfit for such a position, he would find it in himself to accept it. Though he prayed that day was far off, because Danu owed him compensation for his life before.

He might have thought the girl was to be his restitution for all he'd suffered in life. Though she did not seem as keen as most of the women he spent his time with, she did not deny him entirely. There was something about her that he wanted to understand. Any time he had tried asking, she gave him short answers. She was the type that would have to be pursued, and he knew that should he be lucky enough to see her again, he might get the opportunity to do so.

Not but a few more steps away from the tavern, he heard fabric rustling. It was a harsher sound than one would hear as they tossed bedsheets off in the morn'. The sound was an odd one to hear so far into the evening, and in the street no less. But it was not alone. Delayed breathing accompanied the peculiarity. What sounded akin to suppressed sobbing echoed in the background. There were two people, fading in and out of the street lamps, tumbling around. It wasn't often he'd seen a man so desperate to be with a woman that they'd taken to business before they reached a room, but there they were.

When the sobs reached his ears again however, he stopped in his tracks. Eyes narrowed, focusing in on what exactly the two were doing. He watched the man's hands go reaching for the buttons on his breeches and suddenly understood.

Stephen pounced on the man, peeling him from Maylin for the second night in a row. The man fell with a thud into the building behind him, groaning in pain. If the captain had anything to say about it, that was going to be the final time Crawford ever touched a woman. Luckily Stephen did have that power, and as captain, he knew he would deal with the son of a bitch later. His blood boiled, looking back to the stunned brunette on the ground.

Lying in the mud, shivering with fear and quietly crying. The eyes that looked like they had the potential to beam so brightly just the night before, were squeezed shut. Stephen muttered a curse under his breath. His fist went flying in connection with Crawford's jaw before he could stand again. The force sent him back into the brick structure of the fabric shoppe.

Knowing it’d be a while for Crawford to come back to his senses, Stephen turned his attention back to Maylin. As he reached for her, he noticed she did not withdraw. She was overwhelmed, every sensation she would have felt hitting her at once and keeping her body numb.

His arms went under her shoulders to hoist her up and she let out a strangled sob as he did so. It was a pitiful sound, and nothing like the dignified woman he'd danced with just a night earlier. The sound struck deep within him, finding a place that he rarely recognized. It was a place he did his damndest to keep hidden and quiet. Should that place come alive again, he wasn't sure he would be able to quell it. That place was the harvester of nightmares that he thought he'd outgrown. He wanted no part of it and for both of their sakes, he prayed Maylin's cries would calm soon.

"It's Stephen Bonnet, darlin'. I've got ye now," he reassured her. "I'm going to take care of you, sweetheart." His voice was softer then, settling over her quivering form like a comforting glass of whisky.

He checked on Crawford again, bloodied and immobile on the ground. Oh, Stephen would get the last word on him soon. He knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise. Crawford didn't deserve so much as an extra breath of air where the captain was concerned.

As Maylin cried against Stephen's chest, tears soaking his buttoned waistcoat, he tried to decide what to do. He couldn't very well take her back to his ship, not yet at least. She'd been nearly violated and most likely wouldn't care to be alone with a man, much less with one she didn't yet trust. And while Stephen had arrived just in time, there was no telling what that bastard might have accomplished before he found her. The thought of it alone made Stephen want to rip off the man's cock himself and feed it to him. But that would be if he decided to grant him mercy.

The Crow's Feet signage swung to Stephen's eyes. That's where he would take her. Remembering the odd relationship between the girl in his arms and the tavern's owner, he concluded it was his best bet. Emily was a woman, she would know more about the care of this situation than him. Readjusting Maylin, he made his way to the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was honestly, as you can imagine, difficult to write. Maylin's inner thoughts and terrifying situation put me in a very strange mood while I was writing it, and that only confirmed that I knew keeping it at an attempted rape was the right way to go. It allows the story to still have that as a poignant moment without being //as// horrendous as it could have been. Alas, I am happy as hell that this chapter is out of the way so things can start moving along now. 
> 
> I feel like this story hasn't been very "happy" yet, but I do promise, good times are up ahead! Things just need to take time to develop and you can't have the happy, rewarding moments until the "slow/sad" ones have been sorted through first. I'm very excited to start getting to the good stuff soon. :) 
> 
> The song this chapter was named after is:  
> Tell God and the Devil by Solas  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hfMu3_2CmM
> 
> If you're interested in more detail about food packaging during the 18th century, that can be found here:  
> https://ohioline.osu.edu/factsheet/cdfs-133
> 
> A little fun fact, the novel that Maylin refers to in this chapter is "Beauty and the Beast," which was originally published in 1740. 
> 
> As usual, the goal is to get the next chapter out within a week. Though this upcoming week may be a bit different as I'm away to Ireland and Scotland from March 7-18th! I will try to probably get some writing done before then, or even while I'm there late at night (because I'm sure I'll be too inspired //not// to write). This will be my third trip to Ireland and second to Scotland. Ireland is one of my favorite places in the world, and I'm very connected to my Irish ancestry and culture, so you can rest assured that great, great love and care goes into making sure this fanfic is as authentic as possible. :)
> 
> And as always, let me know what you think! Thanks for sticking around to the end of this dangerously long author's note as well. :)


	4. Overnoon / Become the Beast

After having awakened by harsh sunlight cutting her eyelids, Maylin rose. She was stricken with panic until Emily managed to calm her. The tavern owner explained what occurred the night before as she fed Maylin with eggs and a strong cup of tea. While Emily didn't quite like the other woman, she empathized with her. She knew single women were opportune prey for men. She had her own similar experiences many times, only she wasn't always so fortunate of a rescue. And such came with the territory, she supposed, being in charge of a popular establishment. But truthfully, Emily was surprised Maylin hadn't had it happen before.

 ...

 Stephen launched himself and Maylin through the tavern entrance. Though his physicality screamed furious, his face was curiously placid. The other customers paused, watching the renowned Captain Bonnet hold a weeping lass. His eyes surveyed the room for its owner. Emily rushed to him as soon as she realized who he was carrying. She put her hands on her hips, pointing back toward a hallway that led to her chambers.

 "Get her to my bed, now," she said.

 Stephen nodded, ignoring the ignorant quips of seated patrons. He followed along the short hallway and turned to his left, opening the door with a kick of his foot. A small fireplace with a warm glow greeted him as he entered, taking Maylin down on the bed. The young woman whimpered the moment he let her go, and it gripped his heart into a knot. He sighed, the memories of his childhood threatening to break through.

 "What happened?" Emily asked, appearing in the doorway.

 Stephen stood to full height again. He inhaled through flared nostrils before explaining.

 "Attempted rape. By one of my own bleedin' men. I reached her in time but I reckon she'll hurt tomorrow. Watch over her tonight, will ye? I have business to attend to."

 He then turned on his heel, the tails of his coat whirling as he exited. He was not going to let history repeat itself.

  _..._

Maylin thanked Emily for the help and promised that she was in her debt. But she had to go. She had to get out of the confines of that room, out of that tavern, out of the area of the attack.

 As she walked along the streets back toward the bakery, she noticed a strange aura had misted over the city. Perhaps it was her own paranoia nagging her, reminding her how Crawford's hands felt as they traveled up her legs. She shuddered, squeezing her eyes closed in attempt to will the memory away. Every step gave her pain, bruises having formed overnight. Her body felt heavy with fatigue and the weight of the incident. She'd only ever heard of such things happening. She took such measures when venturing out alone, during both day and night. How could she have let it happen to her?

 She should never have spoken to the man. Niceties or not. Meeting strangers on the street, regardless of recognition, should not be taken lightly. She could have run. She //could// have ignored him and kept walking. A sob wracked her chest again, immediately trying to quell it. She stepped on faster. She wanted to rid herself of the clothing that she wore the night before. It was dirty. The lovely printed skirt left to her by her mother would have to go. She couldn't bare to look at it, but she’d have to until noon. She’d be off work and run home to get clean. She was running behind already.

Voices of passersby rang as she stood to open the door to Mr. Godfrey’s bakery. The words sounded foreign to her ears at first, not paying much attention.

Murder. Hanging. Severed limbs. Down by the docks.

Maylin sighed, hoping that the breath would help to release some tension. Wasn't what happened to her last night evil enough? Each city should've had an allotted amount of evil it would endure on one night. Philadelphia should've had the least amount, if any. Maylin knew she was being foolish with such notions as she pushed inside. The world was cold, even if there was a sun to light it.

She was late. Were Mr. Godfrey there on time, he might’ve been cross with her. She was thankful he was absent as usual.

While she struggled to fold dough into pastries, her mind went wandering to her rescuer. So the tavern wasn't her salvation, it wasn't her savior. Stephen Bonnet was. The details of what she remembered didn't include his saving her. It was the abhorrent details that made her hands shake that morning. 'Twas an odd story to hear from Emily. Though of course she wouldn't have reason to lie to her, not for something of that matter. As grateful for the timely protection as she was, she couldn't understand the motive.

They only shared a dance and a walk home. Where she should've been flattered, she was instead confounded. Stephen Bonnet could've been anywhere that night, with any other woman. The impossible timing was what kept throwing her. She did not understand how she could be so lucky. A handsome man of power in the right place at the right time, using his body to shield and protect her? Maylin wouldn't have thought she deserved deliverance. At least not with the way she'd been questioning God's existence.

Still, the captain did not stay behind to assure her. He merely dropped her off at Emily's tavern. Maylin would've assumed that after showing such interest, he would've stayed with her. Perhaps he wasn't interested at all and his showmanship was but a farce. Perhaps he thought that by playing the hero, he would have a better chance at getting in her bed. He'd seemed very ardent the night they danced. He was a sailor though, and they were known for having a different lass in every port. The only reason any man as attractive as Stephen Bonnet would want someone like Maylin would be if she were a game.

Rubbish, Maylin thought, wiping her hands on her apron. Were she a game, the captain would've likely had his way with her after tearing her from Crawford. She was being absurd. He'd told her he was an honest man. She had lived in the city for so long that her trust extended to no one. She was too afraid to believe that Stephen Bonnet had saved her as a good man. If that were his reason,  it might spell trouble for her.

 ...

The captain made his way back to the ship. He was cold and calculating as he thought of all the ways he'd discipline Crawford suitably. As a pirate, there were crimes he was able to overlook. Most of them, in fact. Unfortunately for Crawford, rape was not one of them.

It put a foul taste in his mouth to speak of it and a grim mind to think of it. Having been a child of rape himself, he could not condone it. He'd watched his mother beaten near to death daily as a child. He wished he could've muted his mother's pleas while his father took her every time against her will. He would not let another man get away with it.

The moment his boot connected with the deck of the Gloriana, he roused his crew. Those who were not granted shore leave that night were to appear on deck in under thirty seconds. Stephen needed revenge and he refused to wait.

Groggy men appeared. Some had been sleeping and were unhappy to be receiving orders when they weren't at sea. With his hand resting on his pistol, Stephen requested accompaniment ashore.

"Unfortunately there's been an offense too criminal to speak aloud, sirs. I'm in need of three of you to aid me in a fellow sailor's punishment. Orden, as quartermaster I trust you will join me. Roberts and Denys, put your fecking boots on. You'll be coming as well," he said.

The men looked to each other, hesitating. Their captain was known to deliver an exceptional penalty when provoked. But to call one out in the middle of the night? This _must've_  been a special case. When Roberts and Denys didn't move swiftly enough, Stephen barked.

"Get your things on now, I said!"

Orden stood beside his captain, black hair almost blue under the moonlight. He adjusted his coat and crossed his arms. He'd been at work on watch for the last hours, wondering what he missed on land to inspire such anger.

"What's our mission, cap'n?" he asked.

"An eye for an eye, Mr. Orden," Stephen answered.

Denys reappeared first, emerging from below deck.

"Who's our target?" he asked.

"David Crawford, our fellow gunman," the Irishman replied.

Denys and Orden exchanged knowing looks. It was easiest to replace lower tier crew, like gunners. And if their captain was going to these lengths to expel Crawford, they knew it must've been one hell of a violation. Once Roberts joined them, they went into the city on a search.

Stephen led them from the front, strong and sure. They strode through streets and into various establishments asking about Crawford's whereabouts. It wasn't until they discovered a brothel, the Nagging Wife. When Stephen inquired, the plump female owner nodded.

"Aye. Man came in 'ere, drunk off his arse. Brown hair, missing bottom tooth? Led 'im upstairs with one of our own, Mary. Second door on the right," she said.

As Stephen thanked her, he began to climb the stairs, his men behind him.

"But no fightin' 'til yer outside or I'll tell all of Philadelphia and ye'll not get no service in this town again!" she called after them.

When they reached the door, Stephen put his ear to it and heard confirmation. It was Crawford no doubt. Only someone as vile as him could make such revolting sounds of pleasure. He pulled back and looked to the trio.

"You're to take him from wherever the hell they're ruttin' and drag him outside. I don't care how you take him, but you're to bring him to me unharmed. I want to punish him meself. I'll wait outside. Go on, then," he ordered.

Stephen pushed on the door and his eyes blazed when he saw Crawford beneath a red-haired whore. Mary, she must've been. Orden, Denys and Roberts barged in, which Mary squealed at in surprise. Roberts pushed her off the offender and smiled in thanks.

"What is the point of this?!" she screamed. "I'll not be paid now."

Orden, a bit more hospitable, threw a shilling from his pocket onto her bed.

"Direct orders from our cap'n, love. No explanation needed," he said.

Stephen was already downstairs, waiting in the night air outside the building. His hands twisted the gag he'd tie around Crawford's mouth. He meant to put the man on display, but he didn't want to cause a scene yet. Drawing too much attention would cut his punishment short. Crawford didn't deserve that much quarter.

He heard the struggles that came from his men dragging Crawford down the stairs and smiled. He was daft to think he'd be able to get away with something as serious as attempted rape. Then of course, Crawford had always been dimwitted. He was quick with loading guns but slow everywhere else. It wouldn't be much of a loss, Stephen knew.

He wondered where Crawford even got the money to spend on a whore. Knowing his records, he'd never been able to budget his coin. He'd been caught with stealing from his comrades on occasion. Reduced rations and a quick flogging had temporarily corrected that problem. But his offense toward Maylin was unforgivable. The behavior was inexcusable period, even if it hadn't been toward the lassie whose name had been clouding Stephen's mind.

The three men forced their way outside, the fourth in tow. At least the prick had his breeches and shirt back on. Stephen's eyebrows rose, the gag warm in his palms.

"Ah, there y'are, Mr. Crawford. Sorry about the intrusion there. You see, I couldn't let your punishment wait until the dawning. Too barbarous, it was. If ye'll join us, we'll be takin' you to accept your consequences now," he said. His collected demeanor was eerie considering the way he tugged the gag between Crawford's mouth. Meeting satisfaction, Stephen took the man's jaw in his hand, urging him to face him square.

"Were ye never after learning your Scripture, lad?" He clicked his tongue. "A virtuous woman is prized above rubies; her price is greater than pearls. Ye seem to have forgotten that bit earlier, didn't ye? Shame." Assuring that Crawford's eyes stayed locked on his, he shoved his fist hard against the man's jaw. For the second time that night, Crawford blacked out.

Down where he could be on display for everyone, that would be the spot. The pirates reached the empty dockside, save for a pair that shagged against a smithy wall. Otherwise, it was clear and quiet with the waves hitting rhythmically. Denys, Roberts and Orden let Crawford's body fall to the ground. As they heaved from exertion, they looked to their captain for further instruction.

Stephen neared the body, his hands lazily positioned on his belt. An ominous smirk grazed his lips and he gave the man's arm a kick. Crawford's eyes began to open, disoriented.

"I am obliged for the opportunity to repay my debt to ye, Mr. Crawford. It was so kind of ye to look after Miss. Brennan for me," he said. "A life for a life, as the Good Book says."

Stephen's men laughed at the poor bastard as he tried to help himself upright. He groaned in pain, struggling to remove the gag from his mouth but found his hands were bound too.

"Wouldn't've helped us much if ye'd been thrashin' about," Stephen said, referring to the ties. "Proceed, gentlemen." With that, the other three men took to beating Crawford to a pulp.

His head, neck, groin, shoulders and legs were subject to vicious bruises and breaking. He moaned of pain with every new blow, nearing tears after a fair two minutes of it. The couple that were hiding by the smithy had run off, either to find a proper room or in fear, Stephen didn't care. What he cared most about was making sure that there would be one less menace left to terrorize other women.

"That's enough, lads. We don't want him entirely unconscious," Stephen ordered.

The three pulled back, giving Stephen a moment to admire their work. Crawford was damaged alright. But he was still awake, and that pleased him. Stephen's hand fished in his pocket for the sturdier rope he'd brought along. Once retrieved, he began roping it into a noose. As he tied it off, he noticed a plank of wood resting alongside the smithy. It was small enough, with two holes at the top. The yoke looked like it meant to be fashioned into a sign. An idea made Stephen smile again, walking to it and picking it up. It would be a nice accessory around Crawford's neck, he thought.

To finish him off, Stephen ordered Orden to carve a message into the wood. The captain could spell his name, aye. What mattered in his position was that he knew sailing and navigation. He knew how to manage his crew and make a healthy profit. Numbers and letters didn't come easy to him and he had men for that.

Crawford's pained moans were being to quiet down, numbness beginning to claim him. The pool of blood beneath him glistened in the moonlight, soaking his clothes and hair. 

Stephen watched as they prepared the man to be strung up. It didn't please him, taking the life of an otherwise innocent man. However, this man was everything but. Watching this pig trying to force himself on Maylin was the last sight he'd expected to see. He couldn't imagine how frightened the dear lassie must've been. From his conversation with her the night earlier, he'd gathered that she was quite headstrong. Her presence lit up the environment, and he guessed she hadn't even been aware of it. Her voice was sweet. She spoke with the accent of the colonists, every now and again slipping into the hint of an Irish lilt. No doubt inherited from her parents. She was beautiful, and that was simple. He knew it was only the luck of Danu that he was there in time to come upon her.

And once Crawford was gone, he knew she'd be avenged.

"Ready, cap?" Orden asked, holding the plank of wood up.

Robert and Denys looked toward them, stepping back from Crawford's body. Stephen nodded one, solemn.

"Aye. Let's give 'im his punishment, then," he said.

Hoisted up, heavy body limp in the rope. He hung above the blacksmith's shoppe sign. Stephen felt guilty for putting the poor smithy in such a compromise, but his crime was nowhere near as unforgivable as Crawford's.

A pool of Crawford's blood collected beneath his dangling corpse. Around his neck was the wooden necklace. It read: I CROSSED STEPHEN BONNET.

The scene was a nasty one, but it had to be done.

"One less mouth to feed," Stephen said.

 ...

When noon came, Maylin began cleaning up. Mr. Godfrey still hadn't arrived, leading her to wonder whether something happened. She knew he hadn't been feeling well as of late, but when it came to that man, there were always excuses. Still, it was strange. She ought to go check on his residence, to be sure.

Saturday was the last day the market would be open, but she'd have to run. Shopping now, checking Mr. Godfrey later. Mayhaps he was just quite busy himself, she thought.

As she made her way downtown, she heard anxious conversations again. Murder. Hanging. Blood. Down by the docks. Puzzlement crossed her features, but less shock. Still, she warranted that she was not as ill-lucked as whoever had been murdered. She wondered what the man might've done to earn such a trial. More redcoats than usual seemed to wander the city, alert and ready. Were they on the hunt for the murderer? Unsettling, to think that the murder might've still been on the loose.

The market was in full force when she arrived, with everyone dashing to get their ingredients before the day's end. She approached the man who always sold her fresh fish. He was a kind man with a family back at home, or so he'd share sometimes. Thomas Hawkins was perhaps one of the only other men that Maylin could trust aside from Mr. Godfrey. And even the baker wasn't reliable.

"Good afternoon, Miss. Brennan," Thomas said.

Maylin reciprocated the greeting, bowing her head in acknowledgment.

"Glad to see you here, dear. Word's out that there's a murderer afoot," he said. He already went to begin packaging the salmon Maylin typically asked for.

The woman's eyebrows knit together.

"What do you know of the crime? I've heard only snippets all day," she replied.

Thomas inhaled.

"Man beaten down by the docks. Strung up by a rope, body beaten. 'Twas the pirate Stephen Bonnet what did it.," he said.

Maylin gasped.

"I beg your pardon. Who?"

Thomas tied the fish up with a string, placing it inside the woven basket Maylin brought with her. It was once her mother's, and now she used it for the weekly shopping.

"Captain Bonnet. Of the Gloriana," he repeated.

Was it the same Stephen Bonnet that Maylin had danced with? Who had saved her from being assault? A pirate? A million questions went reeling through her mind. But shakily, she tried to dig in her pockets for the money owed to Thomas. She could digest the information later in the comfort and solitude of her home. She mustn't let anyone know she associated with criminals.

"A pirate, you say?"

"Aye. I've sold some provisions to him before. Fair captain, but harsh. He's well known in the colonies, famous for smuggling tea and brandy from overseas. Ship left this morning. Must've been afear of being caught," the fisherman explained.

Maylin held out the shilling for the seafood and half-smiled at him. Her teeth were chattering she was filled with such sudden anxiety.

"Thank you, Thomas. I really must be going now. Thank you," she said, scurrying off.

She hadn't the energy to restock her cupboards with tea or other foods. The market was too crowded and she was too shaken. The events of the past few days felt like they'd crashed upon her like a fallen brick roof. And as much as she wanted to run home and hide from it all for a while, she knew she better return to Mr. Godfrey's house. She knew she wouldn't be able to focus on comprehending anything until she was sure her employer was alright.

She nearly tripped over her skirts, and people, on the way. It seemed the city's entire population was migrating down near the docks to get a glimpse at the scene. She couldn't bear to listen to it. It was all too much, all at once.

When she arrived at Mr. Godfrey's home, she found the door was unlocked. Odd, but the man's memory had been failing him for a while. It was the unbelievable silence that made the hairs on her neck stand. There was almost no presence to be felt, and this only worried her further as she stepped around. Recent artifacts of a home having been lived in were there. A kettle on the stove with a half drunk cup of tea beside it. A coat tossed onto a chair next to a round table. Though there was no fire lit, Maylin did finally spot the man as he sat next to it in a wooden chair.

"Mr. Godfrey, sir, it's Maylin," she said, tip-toeing in case he woke.

As she turned to look down at him, she screamed. It was a shrill sound that shook the building. There he was. White in the face, mouth left open and eyes vacant. There was no movement to his chest.

He was gone, her means of work along with him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this from Edinburgh, Scotland! Unfortunately the next chapter probably won't be up by next weekend because of my trip, just a fair warning. 
> 
> Songs that inspired this chapter, both happen to be Scottish! :)  
> Become the Beast by Karliene  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmVzeriU5m0  
> The Silent Majority by The Paul McKenna Band  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfp51w0fADs
> 
> This chapter was actually inspired by one of my favorite Pirates of the Caribbean fanfics, Mark'd by sleepylotus. It's absolutely brilliant like the rest of her work. I can't take full credit for the hanging/murder idea in this chapter because I borrowed from sleepylotus' story. You can find Mark'd here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6488626/chapters/14852116 
> 
> I had so much fun with this chapter and have been waiting to get this one out to you all. Hope you enjoyed!!


	5. June / The Fox Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT:  
> After some time and thinking, I've decided to change something about the last chapter. I've decided that Stephen and his men only beat and hung Crawford, with the "I crossed Stephen Bonnet" sign around his neck. The reason I originally took his limbs off was because I wanted the scene to really stick out and give a fright, but also Stephen canonically threatens to cut off Roger's limbs in episode 409. Creatively, it was an interesting scene to write because I typically only write fluff, so it was a nice challenge. But writing is a process, and I've decided to change that detail. So everything in the scene stays the same, but Crawford doesn't get his throat cut, or his arms and legs ripped off. (Having a less gory murder also won't scare Maylin so much! It's fanfic, but it has to stay somewhat believable.) 
> 
> I have changed the last chapter to reflect this decision and hope no one is too confused! 
> 
> Enjoy the next chapter, hope it was worth the wait!

"A little farther port, Mr. Orden," Stephen instructed.

The winds were fair enough, but with one glance at the sky, he knew there'd be trouble that afternoon. Was this Danu's punishment? He didn't punish Crawford out of sport, but consequence. If he was to get lenient with any of his crewmen, he knew his position would be at stake. That and the bastard simply didn't deserve to live.

He wondered what Maylin heard of it. If she'd be thankful, pleased or terrified. He prayed it wouldn't be the latter, but he didn't doubt it either. Any lass would be. Of course he killed Crawford for her. Her, and a multitude of other reasons. If Stephen had let someone like that go free, there was no telling how many more women he'd have tried to corrupt. In a twisted way, Stephen felt obligated to get rid of the man in duty to his mother's memory. He'd finally the strength to do what he couldn't then.  
  
As the ship rolled beneath his feet, he steadied himself on the gunwale. Philadelphia was now out of sight. If only the young woman he'd danced with left his rattling mind too.

He lamented leaving in such haste, but knew it was wise. He couldn’t risk being caught. Especially when he had a promising business proposal awaiting him in North Carolina.

...

Philadelphia was nothing but ghosts for Maylin. She was out of work, about to be out of money, and wondered if she was out of her mind as well. Mr. Godfrey's death took a toll on her, and she wasn't of the position to care for his bakery alone. Even if she was, the city took responsibility of the establishment the moment he was declared dead. It was a curse that took everything from here, then. A curse that bound her to the predictable streets of a city she'd never left and stole her means of survival. Philadelphia was beating the bleeding hell out of her, and she couldn't stand to look at her bruised reflection any longer.

There was nothing keeping her there anymore, save for herself. She told herself that if her parents could up and leave their home, she might have the strength to as well. The New World made promises to immigrants it couldn't seem to keep. It couldn't keep them for the long haul, and not to immigrants' children. Where did that leave Maylin? Where was she to go? She was not a native Irish woman, but she didn't feel a connection to Pennsylvania either. She only felt betrayal.

But she knew life overseas wasn't much better. Philadelphia was a popular city to pass through for newcomers, and Maylin had overhead many conversations in reference to abandoned and oppressed immigrant homelands. She knew what she had to do, but didn't want to admit to herself. Not just yet. Even as she packed her things into a single trunk, she couldn't face the future as bravely as she might've liked.

Virginia was too ridden with political tension. Boston the same. Perhaps the warmer sun would do her a bit of good, and so she settled for the Carolinas. Farther from whatever revolution the northerners were trying to conjure up. She knew from her parents' stories over the years that uprisings against the English never succeeded. There was a time when she might have supported the rebellion, but that would've been a lifetime ago. Since her parents' deaths, she preferred to stay out of sight. Keeping to herself as a way of defense. There was no better way than to keep away from the public than move away from it.

She wondered what her parents would think. Maylin could stand disappointment, but not to this proportion. She felt herself begin to go mad with the way the streets and its people seemed to mock her.

"Orphaned." "Struggling." "Poor girl, she used to work for that baker." "She was seen with that pirate before he commit murder."

No, she had to leave. Her passage was already secured aboard a ship called _The City of Baltimore._ It was to average around a three day journey. Enough time to prepare before she set out to find whatever North Carolina was willing to offer.

...

One thing Maylin's mother had taught her as a girl was that there was safety in numbers. When she saw how many others were joining the journey with her, she relaxed. Among these passengers was a French woman, roughly of the same age. She and Maylin spent most of the voyage together, agreeing that two was better than one. She learned that Odette had sailed from Brittany only months before with her sister. Though her kin caught smallpox days into the voyage and didn't make it. She'd told Maylin that the newfound sisterly company with her was welcome. Sailing could be a nasty experience, she warned. But it was a necessary evil if one  ever hoped to live more than a meaningless existence.

Throughout the voyage, the companionship was appreciated by both women. They confided in each other, neither knowing what might await them. Maylin and Odette passed time by bonding over lost loved ones and shared experiences. Some of which involved the art of baking. It was quickly found as common ground for them, both having earned their living from it.

"Have you work set out once we reach Wilmington?" Maylin asked.

They walked circles on deck during their hours above, and Maylin was glad of the change of setting. Before her, a wide expanse of ocean, reflecting the glittering sky. It was the first time she felt any sense of relief in months. The wind whipped her hair before she tied it back with a ribbon, air crisp and the sea steady. She could spend the rest of her days there, she thought. Not as claustrophobic as Philadelphia often felt.

"No. But French pastries are exotic here, yes? I hope that someone will want to take me somewhere," the auburn-haired woman responded.

Maylin smiled.

"Anything that isn't English is exotic in the colonies," she chuckled. "Why don't we partner? Surely Wilmington has a demand for baking that's as much quality in taste as it is in presentation. The French are all about the grand presentation, aren't you?"

Odette smiled back, her eyes lighting up in trust.

"The two of us together. We will be unstoppable," she said.

…  _some months later_...

The harbor was humming with strangers. New faces came into port about every other day, each one more eager than the last. Maylin smiled upon them, understanding how high their hopes were and wishing them good fortune. It wasn't easy building a new life anywhere. But Wilmington had been kind to her so far.

A shipment of new ingredients was to come in that noon. Odette's baking methods were far from cheap, but the earnings balanced it out. The newest order was coming from France. For a moment, Maylin imagined what it must be like to sail such a distance. Her days aboard the City of Baltimore had been uplifting, but for weeks? While she waited for the parcels, she thanked the powers at be that she spent most of her time on land. The rush of being at sea was most likely due to the change in scenery more than anything.

Her eyes browsed the names of ships already moored. A few of them were recognizable: _The Artemis, The Lady Virginia, The Gloriana._

She paused. _The Gloriana?_

A strike of fear hit her, memories of what happened months ago attempting to trounce her. She hadn't given the pirate any thought since her relocation. Those nights were buried deep in the far recesses of her mind.

_He_ was in part, a reason she'd left Philadelphia behind. To know any criminal by association was a hanging offense. That tempting lilted accent had drawn her in, offering comfort to her where she sorely lacked it. His voice reminded her of a place she longed to go but had never been. He'd seemed trustworthy at the time, but the murder.... She still wasn't sure how she felt about that fact. Rescuing her from rape would have been enough. He needn't also go and kill the man.

Did he expect her to be grateful for it? She wondered what that did to his ego. Inflated it, most likely. Dashing Irishman avenging the poor little baker's attack. The words rung loud in her head: "I crossed Stephen Bonnet." Sickness flitted in the depths of her stomach. In another life, she may have given him a chance had he not sought murder. And yet she remembered him as more handsome than any other man she'd known. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. There was no telling what kind of woman that made her. Unfortunately, she remembered their short time together with fondness. But that was before he'd unleashed hell upon her offender the next day.

And which man was he? The sailor she'd danced with on a Thursday night, or the heartless beast who'd left a man to hang?

Perhaps it was best she not find out. One more glance at the ship's name and she ran. So Odette and her wouldn't be present to pick up their shipment in person. Someone would deliver it to the bakery before the ship set sail again.

…

Maylin enjoyed mornings. As a baker, she hadn't much choice otherwise. It trained her to rise like a lark and learn to appreciate the coming sun. She enjoyed seeing a town in its awakening, undisturbed by all the motions and noises the day would bring. Wilmington looked like another town entirely without pedestrians to fill in the streets. Shop doors swung open one by one, greeting the refreshing morning air. Chimneys were only beginning to puff smoke from their tops. It was a sweet sight to someone who'd spent most of their life in a littered, overcrowded city.

While the rest of the townspeople rose from bed, the printer had already put hours of work behind him. Displayed in the same window of the same shop, every day, was the Wilmington Gazette. Maylin took to keeping herself updated on her new dwelling shortly after she moved. Each day she'd grab a copy of the newspaper and enjoy it over a cup of coffee while the bakery's ovens heated up. It was a routine she didn't have to dread, preferred over mornings with Mr. Godfrey's nagging.

The soft sound of trotting horses passed by her ear as she turned to the print shop. The town would come alive soon, and she smiled.

But that smile was short lived as she saw the horses' trotting was very much  _not_  trotting, but cantering. The sounds followed by a group of armed redcoats close behind, shouting at all two people in the street to move away.

A flash of color flew passed her, causing her to blink. Her breath caught as the motley figure grabbed her, pressing her against him into an alley. His back was flush with a brick wall, hers with his chest. She gasped from surprise, and opened her mouth to scream. Whoever had taken her put their hand to her mouth.

"Shh. Hush now, they'll be finding us if you don't keep quiet," the voice said.

She knew that voice.

Writhing to break free was pointless, for the captor only held her body to his tighter.

"Darlin', _please._ They'll do much worse if you're found with me. Hush," he whispered.

His breath was hot in her ear, his nose brushing her hair. She needed to escape. Not only did this encounter remind her of how helpless she'd been months ago in Philadelphia, but she knew the man speaking was right. If she were seen with him, she'd be thrown in prison as well. To add to the inexplicability of it all, she didn't know if she was more afraid or confused by him.

The horses leapt away from sight. The four redcoats staggered in the street's middle, scampering around.

"He couldn't have gone far. You lads know these ways, search him. We're splitting up," one of the stockier guards ordered.

The man holding Maylin sighed. The motion of his chest rising and falling against her did not go unnoticed by either. It caused Maylin to tense as it caused her captor to grin. Of all the luck he had.

The stocky guard set out to find them as the four dispersed. He was headed in their direction, which would not bode well. Maylin's captor took her hand instead, reeling her in to follow him like a demanding ocean tide.

"Stop right there! Pirate!" the guard shouted.

The print shop forgotten behind her, Maylin had no choice but to follow the man through the town's back alleys and streets. It almost felt like one of the great fox hunts her father would tell her about as a child. Wild foxes running from the hunters back in the Irish countryside. Except this time, Maylin was one of the foxes, and like the animal, she was also running for her life.

Streaks of sunlight illuminated new passageways she otherwise wouldn't have known existed. Her captor's hand held hers in a vice-like grip. She lifted her skirts with her free one, ducking under shop signs and under archways. How far, or to where they were going, she couldn't understand. Nothing about this run gave her the sense that he had a hiding place in mind. They zig-zagged around for what felt like miles. It seemed like quite the activity to outrun only a handful of redcoats. But then, her captor was a wanted man, wasn't he?

Finally, they reached the edge of town, to the left of the harbor where a small wooden building sat. It more closely resembled a hut, mismatched in its wood panelling and decorated with an elaborate sign on the door that read: TATOO. Maylin recognized it from the town's talk. A newcomer had recently built it as a tattoo parlor, after being discharged from the Navy for losing his right hand. This made Maylin wonder how he managed to ink anyone's skin.

Her captor pulled her to the side of the building, hidden between that and overgrown foliage. He put his finger to his mouth in a plea that she'd remain quiet. Both were heaving with exhaustion, which the man appreciated as he eyed her bosom. Maylin peaked around the corner, seeing none of the guards or their horses followed them. Turning back to her captor, she narrowed her eyes. He needed to explain exactly what the bleeding hell was going on.

"You!" she began.

"Small world, innit, sweetheart?" Stephen smiled.

"What are you doing here?" Her hands went to her hips. The rush of adrenaline must've brought her more courage.

"Business, as per usual. What happened to poor old Philadelphia?" he asked.

"None of your business," she retorted. " _'Business.'_  That's a funny word for the kind of business you trade, Mr. Bonnet."

Stephen sighed, dropping the hand that had been twisting the ring on his opposite.

"If you're referring to my professional career, I'd appreciate ye to not be so pretentious. I'm making a living out here like the rest of us, Miss. Brennan," he answered. His tone was flippant almost, and it irked her.

"You're a thief! A pirate. And what you did to that man months ago?" she pressed.

While they were certain they hadn't been followed, they kept their voices low.

_"Opportunist,"_ he corrected. "As for Crawford, he had it comin'. It was more mercy than he deserved. I can overlook a lot of things, darlin', but not what he was trying wit'ye."

Maylin swallowed hard. Her hands fell from her waist, moving to cross her chest instead. A sign of reluctance and then a sign of defense. She barely knew this man, but she found herself more perturbed with each word he said.

"Did you kill him for you or for me?" she asked.

"For you, and for all the lassies I know he'd try it with again in the future. But don't go thinkin' I get off takin' the lives of me own men now," he said with a shake of his head.

Maylin stayed reticent as her mind digested everything. The lapping ocean near them filled the silence instead, a breeze crossing their cheeks. A minute of peace after the storm. The young woman would've thought she had time enough to come to terms with the disaster of months ago. Yet there he was, standing in front of her, an arm's length away and she hadn't the faintest idea what to say next.

Stephen waited, trying to read her features. She looked like her mind was reeling. He didn't doubt that she had good reason to either. He also gathered that he was asking a lot of her to even have a civil conversation with him. But he couldn't have asked for more from Danu. Beautiful lass before him, dumbstruck that it was _her_ he'd bumped into while on the run. He'd considered himself lucky on many accounts. From captaining an efficient ship, to possessing a hefty amount of coin and escaping multiple death sentences.

He fled Philadelphia hours after leaving Crawford to the birds. There wasn't to be time wasted when he knew the authorities would be on his tail. For months he'd worked at sea, dealing in illegal practices. But no dockside prostitute managed to rid his mind of Maylin Brennan. She came to him in dreams, and for that he was thankful. The lass was a far better subject to to see asleep than the nightmares of being beaten and drowned. He'd tried to hear her voice in moments of quiet when his men were out drunk or on leave. But it was nothing compared to how she spoke in an American accent with the cadence of an Irish lilt.

In effort to make her feel more at ease, he spoke again.

"Redcoats are after me," he started, and Maylin looked up. "I'll have to tread this town lightly, knowing that. But if you'd meet me for supper toni--"

"What?" Maylin asked, her voice still a whisper, though louder this time.

Meet him for supper? She wouldn't dare go aboard his ship. Nor did she fancy meeting him in public at all. Or anywhere, really. One could only be so careful, but everyone got caught in the end.

"By the moonlight, they'll have a harder time recognizin' me. I didn't get the chance to know you properly back in Philadelphia. If you'll accept, I'm offerin' meself again, now," he said.

His blue eyes met hers, begging. She felt a twinge of pity for him. Murderer that he was. Though, if a man had a considerable reason to murder, was it as sinful?

"That ship may have sailed when you decided to kill that man, Mr. Bonnet. You have to understand I don't know where you stand, where your trust lies."

Stephen exhaled, pushing his hair behind his ear.

"My trust lies in those who earn it. I wasn't goin' to let a man like that walk free, darlin'. If I'd not been there, Christ knows what he would've done to ye," he said.

Maylin's heart beat wildly. The fact that she was considering his offer! Her new life in Wilmington was supposed to progress, not retreat. And there she was, reliving the very memory that forced her out of Philadelphia in the first place. Still, Stephen never made any moves to harm her. He _did_ save her from assault. His eyes were clear and his voice was steady. There'd be no reason to lie to her. He could've taken advantage of her months ago, could have now, and hadn't.

Maylin battled with herself, annoyed at it all. If she was to come to North Carolina with a new mindset, her old ways should vanish as well. Or she should at least alter it to suit her new environment. Wilmington was a place where anything could happen, full of hope. And the hopefulness in the sailor's eyes was too strong to deny.

Without completely understanding why, she agreed.

"Dwight's Tavern. Later tonight. I'll dine with you. But I can promise you I won't be straying anywhere else with you after that," she said.

Stephen nodded, smiling and showing his teeth. Strikingly healthy for a man of his occupation.

"Grand. I'll see you then, Miss. Brennan."

He held his hand to her, which Maylin nodded toward but did not accept. She dipped in a quick curtsy and set off. She wouldn't let him have everything so soon, and she still didn't know why the bleeding hell he called to her so.

One thing she knew, she wouldn't know what to tell Odette. Because she didn't know what to tell herself.

…

Where some used their hobbies as distraction, Maylin was the opposite. She spent her day making foolish mistakes. Burning a batch of croissants, and mismeasuring ingredients. She was thankful Odette didn't pester her about it. The French woman could tell something was brewing, but wouldn't force her friend to divulge. She wondered if something peculiar had happened down at the harbor.

Odette herself was often fascinated with the faces that came into port. She was no stranger to the fancies of men, having a new one on rotation almost every month. Of course she loved her time with Maylin, teaching her new baking techniques and her girlish company. But she didn't want to go unmarried forever either. When she wasn't in the kitchen, she was about the town with a potential suitor.

She just wondered who it might've been that had her friend's skirts in such a twist.

...

Most of the usual patrons had left for the night, leaving the once-rowdy tavern now quiet. Those inside nursing a final pint of ale or playing cards over meat and potatoes collectively resembled a cat's purring. The main fireplace roared, with another freestanding hearth in the center of the room. Carolina could be blistering hot during the summer, but that night was cooler than normal.

In the corner, by the red-lined windows, sat the pair. The blond spoke about his recent successes. But he did so in a tone that intrigued Maylin more than she might've liked. While his business was impressive, the movement of his body implied that it wasn't as big of a deal. He had an air of arrogance about him. But it wasn't so much that it was unbecoming. If anything, Maylin found herself startlingly attracted to it.

But it'd been too long since she'd been in the presence of a man that wasn't her family or employer.

He did not pry where he was unwelcome and he did not use force. He was yielding to her throughout their conversation. It was so unlike what she'd heard about him that final night in Philadelphia.

"Tell me this, Mr. Bonnet," she began.

"Stephen. Please."

"Stephen," she restarted. "This can't be a bigger risk than I've taken already. But, why are you here? What I mean to ask is, why ask me to dine with you at all?"

The pirate set his own ale down, clearing his throat before he eyed her curiously. He titled his head as if to understand her better.

"You're so unsure and yet you're not after runnin' away from me, are you? I don't know. You tell me," he said.

He wasn't poking fun at her, but he wasn't going to pretend like he couldn't see it. She sat there judging him for the latter half of their meal. Each little movement he made, her eyes followed intently. He'd no intention of harming her or crossing her boundaries. She was too rare of a gem to risk that. But he also wanted to prove to her that he could be respectable, and oft' times was. If only she'd get passed her preconceived notions.

She sighed.

"If I could tell you, I'd have to know myself. And I don't. I suppose that's your answer," she said.

Stephen pursed his lips at this confession. She wasn't willing to admit to herself that she fancied him. In time, he thought. And if she went off and got herself married the next day, so be it. But at least he'd have tried. There was something pulling him to her that was too damn strong to ignore.

"I promised you. I won't ask anything but your company," he repeated.

Maylin nodded, finally letting her fork sit with a soft "clink" onto her plate. She'd been using it to distract herself from the awkwardness that crept up her spine each time his gaze met her own. Unfortunately, words could be fickle and time was the only real method she had of testing his truth.

"I don't want to damn you, you know," she said, the ghost of a smile behind her face.

Stephen returned the sentiment in full.

"Almost left me guessing, sweetheart. But I thank you. 'S long as you understand I'm not meaning to damn you either," he said, chuckling.

"Understood." She allowed herself to enjoy the smile this time.

"Back in Sligo, when I was a lad. I had nae the strength I do now. My da, y'see, he'd come home most nights reelin' drunk. Off his arse. Whoever he could find first. Sometimes it was meself. But it was usually me mam," he explained. His gaze travelled far away the deeper his story went.

Maylin sat there quietly, bracing herself for the inevitable. She hadn't expected their conversation would take such a turn. But she supposed this might be why he desired company so badly. Did he need as much reassurance as herself?

"I'd hear them from the next room. She'd stop cryin' out. I was no match for the bastard. And I stopped tryin' as well. He'd finish with her and roll me around and beat me until I blacked out. I was grateful for those sometimes, when I couldn't see or hear what was happening around me. Couldn't feel the shame," he continued.

His persona seemed to change with the memory. His gaze got lost somewhere in Maylin's. His eyes were on her but they felt far away, as if he was watching his childhood replay before him. And rather than frightening Maylin, she pitied him.

It was a lot of information to freely give, and so soon in whatever their acquaintanceship was. She knew many weren't so fortunate to have as caring of parents as hers had been, but she'd never been so close to it before. Stephen's truth offered at least some explanation for his recent actions. While that didn't help Maylin forgive him completely for it, --the word "murder" still gave her mouth a foul taste, she could understand his motive.

She gave him a smile, and it held promise.

"Would you care to escort me home?" she asked. Her voice had softened.

Stephen's face lifted. Hopefulness again.

"On we walk, _a leanbh. "_

The word took her by surprise. She hadn't heard someone use it, especially for her. Not since she was a girl. Her heart jumped into her throat before she could speak. Instead, she rose from her seat and looked to Stephen, hoping he'd taken no offense. When she saw him watching her, as if in an enchantment, her face heated. He might be something she could get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fáilte! Welcome back! Thank you for sticking around and waiting for this new chapter. I had so much fun writing this one because Stephen and May can finally start building their relationship and learning from and about each other. 
> 
> This chapter was originally planned to be even longer than it is, but I cut it for time purposes. The final scene that was supposed to be included will fit better in the next chapter anyway. 
> 
> The "Fox Chase" scene where Stephen and May run from the redcoats was vaguely inspired by not only the traditional Irish tune, but the classic Titanic scene with Jack and Rose (if you know which I'm referring to). And fair warning, if you do go ahead and listen to The Fox Chase (which you should!) be prepared because you've never heard the uilleann pipes until you've heard 'em like this. Make sure your volume is down! 
> 
> "The City of Baltimore" was very much a real ship, in fact. One of my Irish ancestors briefly worked aboard as a crewman. The ship was one of the hybrids of the 1800s, half tall mast ship and half steam powered. It was actually transAtlantic, and not used for travel along the east coast. But for the purposes of this story, it was. :)
> 
> "Álainn" is Irish Gaeilge for "beautiful." 
> 
> Songs that inspired this chapter: 
> 
> The Fox Chase by Finbar and Eddie Furey  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-gwWda1ycs&t=256s  
> Jimmy Flynn’s / Farewell to Whalley Range / The Crackin’ Fiddle by Kierah  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FvKrE7W3TCw  
> Toby’s by Dallahan  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFBOV4zBICw
> 
> I've also created a Spotify playlist just for Philadelphia Song! The playlist includes all the songs that inspired each chapter, in order. I might even throw in a few extra for good measure. ;) You can find that here:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/12126251277/playlist/6PHN9oww85kpCbClfvJ5ij?si=HKKfmyoDSu6-RJV1sqITOg
> 
> If you're at all interested in what I've been up to during my short hiatus, you can find my Ireland and Scotland adventures on my YouTube channel here:
> 
> Ireland: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tezyXgwDcX0&list=PLRr82wqDo9HFwV-xNwqI9P7xrD-FtLKQc  
> Scotland: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GPBfUsGN7Q&list=PLRr82wqDo9HHx8OD30DcrltzlSut_COdV
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at: https://bonnieisle.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you for the support on this story! Let me know your thoughts below. :) <3


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